


Skyscraper Pantheon

by loosingletters



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Bruce Wayne, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is Gotham, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Explicit Language, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Personification, Protective Bruce Wayne, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-11-29 13:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18223544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/pseuds/loosingletters
Summary: Bruce Wayne died together with his parents. Unlike them, he woke up again, more than mortal and a little less human.Some gods are born, some are created and a few unfortunate souls wake up again and havebecome.





	1. Incarnatio

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Temporary and permanent Character Death  
> Enjoy!

_Incarnatio_

_The act of being made flesh_

Bruce remembered dying. It was scalding and freezing at the same time. It wasn’t his chest that hurt first, despite the bullet nestled in his lungs, but his mind, focusing on his blood-drenched parents. Death was gasping for breath only to swallow water, to run a mile to take a single step, to jump up just to shatter your bones on the way down, to fall asleep only to wake up to harsh noise and bright light.

Death was torture.

Waking up again was worse.

Later, when Jason would be more than mortal, a little less human, but not quite like Bruce yet, watching over his part of the city, he’d ask him what it had been like to wake up properly.

Waking up was too much like being unmade and rebuilt from the ground up, tearing at the seams as they sew wounds shut that didn’t even exist yet. It was watching yourself fall apart, one thought at the time, still conscious enough to recognize what was done to you and understand that with your first breath in lungs that had not yet touched any air, you could not go back to what you were before, who you used to be. A million voices were in your head, all trying to talk through your mouth and gain your attention. You felt like death still despite this being your rebirth, and you knew that if you looked into a mirror, your face would still be the same, but you wouldn’t be able to tell it was yourself. In most cases, it was the worst tragedy you’d ever experience in your immortal, timeless life.

“It wasn’t as terrible as losing you,” Bruce would reply then, the first olive branch grown on the roof of a house settled on the border of Jason’s home.

But that was years from now.

Currently, Bruce Wayne was eight years old and dying on the dirty pavements of a place not yet called Crime Alley, not yet claimed by the Red Hood.

He took his last breath, and Gotham took its first.

He couldn’t forget his death, never would, though he wasn’t sure what claim he had on the life of the boy who feared for his parents. Some days he felt only pity for these beautiful souls who passed too soon, forgetting entirely that Martha and Thomas Wayne were the people who had told him bedtime stories and, at one point, had been his entire world. Small and young Bruce Wayne was far too distant in those moments. It made him wonder why he still put up with the charade and the pretending instead of getting lost in his city. A few seconds later his mind would clear up again, harsh headaches punishing him for even just entertaining the thought of abandoning his family.

Bruce wished he would be able to forget his awakening.

Gotham was a cruel city to become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've always been in love with the whole Batman-is-a-myth thing and it just.... exploded from there. So this will be a drabble series exploring a universe where Bruce is turned into the (semi) immortal personification of Gotham with all its benefits and disadvantages.  
> Which timeline is this following? I killed Bruce and revived him in one chapter do I look like a mere mortal who cares about what DC is up to? As long as it's not the batfam being happy idc. So, basically, I draw inspiration from a lot of universes. None of that "Ric Grayson" disaster though, I actually know how to write unlike DC.  
> Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear what you think!


	2. Heros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention that this won't be chronological? Because I feel like I should mention that.  
> Anyway, enjoy Bruce meeting Superman for the first time.

_Heros_

_Protector, Defender_

As Bruce Wayne, Gotham city’s darling, he tried to avoid getting into too many dangerous situations. Of course, he still had to get his yearly quota of kidnappings and the like – otherwise, the rest of the city would just get suspicious – but he attempted to keep those in a controlled environment. In Gotham, every single street was his own. He couldn’t exactly tell what happened in each at every given moment, but if he focused, he could get a feeling of it.

The further away from Gotham he got, the thinner did his connection to the city become. The years he had spend traveling had been agony for his mind and soul, even if the end result had been worth it. Other incarnations, a term he preferred to Ra’s al Ghul’s mad rants about gods and their beings, had declared him insane for setting even more than a foot out of his home.

Their kind didn’t leave their territories defenseless, their source of power accessible to all. Gotham was a vast and easy target for foreign infections as well as civil wars. As Gotham, he did not like leaving his home.

But unfortunately, Bruce Wayne was expected to attend Lex Luthor’s party in Metropolis. Bruce had to show off that he had become more responsible, now that he was caring for a little boy, but was still a funny airhead, who didn’t particularly care too much about the business world besides the charities he was donating to.

For all sense and purposes, Bruce Wayne should have been safe on the top floor of this building, his own extra security measurements not even accounted for.

Yet, somehow, a bunch of second rate attackers had infiltrated the party and managed to throw him off a rooftop. It was completely accidental, they wouldn’t have tried to kill the wealthiest person in the room on purpose when they were here to ask for ransom money.

Gotham was a city built up from below the dark waters to the far and wide sky. There wasn’t a single height Bruce was afraid of in Gotham. He knew on which buildings he could land safely, what to do when he was falling without any security.

Metropolis, on the other hand, was unknown territory. It was tall like Gotham, but so bright and full of light. There were no shadows to catch him here, and no familiar incarnations willing to give him a hand, except-

“I got you, Mr. Wayne.”

Except _him_.

Gotham had wondered about Metropolis’ shining beacon, their glorious hero, named Superman by the masses. He was mighty, he was young, and Gotham wondered why Clark Kent decided to take on the burden of a city, even though he had nobody calling him.

“Superman!” Bruce Wayne exclaimed, shocked and cheery at the same time. After such a near-death experience, an extravagant billionaire like him would immediately latch onto Superman.

“I can’t believe it- you caught me!”

“Just doing my job.”

He was really not. Doing a job implicated that you got something for this in return, money or a favor. Superman was doing this out of no obligations or refunds, as far as Bruce's research had told him.

“I have to thank you either way. It’s not every day that you get rescued by a god.”

Bruce smiled, bright and fake like this city looked to him, and he expected, waited really, for Superman to return that smile and boast.

Instead, Superman’s expression turned into an alerted one. “What? No! I’m- I’m not a god. Or God. Capital G, I actually only believe in one-“

Right, the couple who had adopted him, Martha and Jonathan Kent, were Jewish. It made sense for them to have raised him with their religion, given that they were already taking in an alien baby and concealing it from the government for years.

“I know,” Bruce interrupted Superman’s ongoing explanation and pleads. “I know you’re not a god. You should be glad.”

Superman opened his mouth to say something, anything, but before he could continue, the attackers that had shoved Bruce off the rooftop in the first place, caught his attention. He frowned and, looking up, scanned the building for something only he could see.

“Mr. Wayne, I’ll have to leave you on the ground, so I can go help everyone else. Please, don’t be alarmed. I promise the streets are safe.”

His words almost made Bruce laugh. Safe streets were a concept of naïve children, who had yet to see the real world. Was the hero trying to calm him down, or did he honestly believe that?

“That’s fine. Go save the day!” Bruce said.

Superman put him down so incredibly gently that it was hard to believe that he could destroy a whole building bare fisted. Then, with a smile and his inhuman speed, Superman rushed to the top of the building to give the Daily Planet another fantastic story to write about the city’s hero. Bruce didn’t stay to make sure Superman would really get everyone out, he knew the other had dealt with far worse situations. Instead, Bruce walked downtown before hailing a taxi to take him to his hotel.

He had much to think about, plans to make.

Superman wasn’t an incarnation, but he terrified Gotham nevertheless. Bruce was bound by ancient laws written into his very soul, but Superman? The only thing that was holding him back were the morals his adopted parents had raised him with.

And that simply wasn’t enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce: Okay but why would normal people/aliens just dedicate their entire lives to one city without a supernatural pull written into their very being that makes them want to do so?  
> Basically, Bruce has been an incarnation/god since he was eight. His sense of other people is a little... confused.  
> I also honestly can't remember whether Clark's parents are regarded as Jewish in the current DC universe, but I also couldn't care less what DC is up to nowadays (this sounds like I have been here for years, but I basically just joined the fandom but I've been mostly reading older comics bc that's what my library has and bc they are less angsty all the time and entertaining). Anway. I thought it would be fitting for them to be Jewish here to fit with Superman's Jewish roots in his creation as a comic book character. While, of course as basically everybody has been taught in school, you shouldn't equate a character to its creators, I felt like in this case making the Kents Jewish instead of another default Christian family is more honoring Superman's historical origins than anything else. So bottom line, they are Jewish here and Clark has been raised accordingly.  
> If there is anything off in my portrayal of them and Clark, please tell me.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think!


	3. Omnipresence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for implied/referenced child abuse, (underage) prostitution and non-con.  
> Nothing happens to Bruce and nothing is explicit (no thanks I don't, won't and can't write that) and canon has probably done worse but better safe than sorry right?

_Omnipresence_

_Being present always and everywhere_

The voices wouldn’t stop talking. Sometimes they screamed, on other days they only whispered, but no matter what Bruce did, they wouldn’t mute. He could hardly concentrate on his own thoughts. The roaring of cars was followed by a rainstorm crashing on metal panels and frost biting on his toes and fingers accompanied them. Merely the neon lights of Cherry Street’s provided a distraction that was entertaining enough for her to be able to ignore the claws tearing into her stomach and knives cutting into her feet.

Bruce woke up screaming. The blanket Alfred had carefully tucked him in with now tangled around his feet, keeping him constraint. Bruce hated to be held down, he didn’t want any strangers touching him, taking more than she’d give them-

“Master Bruce!”

Someone was shaking his shoulders and he began to thrash, fighting off whoever wanted to take, hurt, have their way-

“Bruce, you need to calm down. Breathe with me. In and out again. Once more. Calm down, you’re safe. You’re home, sleeping in your bedroom.”

No, no, no, Alfred was lying, she wasn’t at home, she had run away after Dad had died and Mom hadn’t been able to put neither breakfast nor lunch or dinner on the table. She’d found work on the streets, terrible ugly work that made her throw up far too often, but it put enough food into her stomach that she could afford to lose some of it again. Summer had been a sweet time, autumn she had survived as well, but Gotham’s winters were so harsh and unforgiving, always had been, but last year she hadn’t had to sleep on the frosty asphalt right next to the trash cans.

Bruce choked on his tears. His shoulders trembled, the beginning or perhaps the ending of an earthquake shook him, forced him to find his ground again and plant his roots.

The manor was warm. His sheets were so much softer than the old blanket she was sleeping with.

“We need- _need_ to-.” Bruce stumbled over his own words. His voice didn’t want to cooperate with him, swallowing all the sounds he could make.

Bruce screamed, tried to blow away all the stuttering. They didn’t have much time left, they had to go now, _now_ , _now_ before it was too late.

“Bruce, I need you to calm for me.”

He didn’t have the time to calm! Why didn’t Alfred understand?

“The city! We have to go to the city now!”

Bruce pushed Alfred’s warm hands off and jumped down from his bed, searching for his shoes.

“And we need soup from dinner, heat it up, please. Where are we keeping the spare blankets? And did we keep the winter coat Uncle Philip never came back to pick up last year?”

Bruce hurried through his room, looking for his own clothes, and Alfred just stood there. He was watching Bruce instead of beginning the tasks Bruce had given him.

“Alfred,” he spoke up again. “Haven’t you heard what I said?”

Bruce couldn’t understand his guardian lately. It was difficult enough to navigate his own self without having to grasp Alfred’s thoughts as well.

Alfred was made up of contradictions. He spoke with a British accent, but he bled Gotham. He cared for Bruce, but he was strict. He denied, but always gave.

His voice was soft, but his eyes full of conflict.

“It’s three in the morning Bruce, the middle of the night. There is nothing you could possibly want in the city right now that can’t wait until morning.”

“But there is,” Bruce insisted. “There is, and she’s important and we have to go now. Alfred, please.”

Silence stood in-between the two of them, massive like a gravestone. For the first time in months, Bruce knew what he had to do, what he could do. And Alfred simply had to help him, there was no other way.

“Alright,” Alfred finally gave in. “Get dressed properly. I’ll change, fetch the items, and start the car. But I want an explanation.”

“Of course.”

Bruce wouldn’t deny his own what he was fated to do.

Barely ten minutes later saw the two of them in one of the less auspicious cars, Alfred in the front and Bruce in the back. The coat, the blankets and the soup were sitting next to Bruce in one of the bigger shopping baskets. Bruce didn’t look away from them, fearing that they’d disappear as soon as they were out of sight. But he didn’t need to see any street signs to know where they had to go. He directed Alfred half across the city, closer and closer to that blood-drenched night’s scene.

Alfred tensed, his knuckles going white on the wheel. But then they passed that damned alley and he became even more concerned.

“It’s alright,” Bruce said. “We’re almost there.”

He told Alfred to park at the entrance to Cherry Street. All around them, people tried to subtly figure out what a child like him was doing here. Many kids were lingering in this part of town, much more than the police pretended to be here. Bruce could probably do a headcount if his migraine were to lessen.

With her basket in hand, Bruce led Alfred into a side street. It was small and dark, only illuminated by the neon signs from the main road. On his left, he could spot a couple dumpsters and hiding between them his goal.

If not for Alfred’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him close, Bruce would have rushed forward. The short walk to her little place seemed much too long for the few meters that it actually was.

“Master Bruce, what are you doing?” Alfred hissed. He kept looking around, waiting for another tragedy to happen.

Many tears would fall tonight, many hearts break and stop, but not here.

Bruce paid Alfred no mind as he finally came to a stop.

“Hello,” he said and crouched down in front of the cardboard box. “Are you still awake, Ariadne?”

The young woman with an ashen face and coal colored eyes was slow to react to Bruce’s presence.

“Who-?”

“Sssh!”

Bruce fished the thermos with the hot soup out of the basket and pressed it into her hands.

“This is for you.”

Ariadne stared at the bottle like she couldn’t understand what exactly was going on. She’d been out here sleeping in the frost, it was no surprise, really.

But Bruce been on time still. He had made it.

Then he handed Ariadne the coat and helped her put it on. Once she was settled again, he gave her the blanket as well.

“Take good care of it,” Bruce told her. “It is a gift. Keep it until you can give it back to me. I’ll find you then. Oh, and tomorrow morning you should go to Madame Angelica. She has work for you.”

It was another secret the streets revealed to him. If he listened closely, paid attention to what he wanted to hear, he could almost dull the buzz at the back of his head.

Ariadne was taller than him. It wasn’t particularly hard to be since Bruce was a child, never mind a somewhat short one. Yet here she was staring up at him like he hung the stars, the moon and the sun, and carved the names of these streets into the ground with his own blood.

 “Who are you?” Ariadne asked, her voice barely above a whisper, soft, unlike her surroundings.

He was Master Bruce, the billionaire orphan, the skyscrapers, the dark and murky waters of the harbors, the dirty alleys, the bright avenues, the green parks, the thousands of people waking up the sound of sirens and newspaper of horrible crimes covering up even more terrible monsters, the hope for a better future for this city. What would he be without these people to give him far more than he can carry?

“I’m Gotham,” he replied. “And I’m _yours_.”

From behind him, Bruce could feel Alfred watching him with something akin to fear in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce basically has the presence of everyone in the city forced upon him at once which is overwhelming him. He's figuring it out though.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
